


Shades of Blue

by sebooty



Series: The Pigments of Our Foundation [1]
Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, slight PTSD, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebooty/pseuds/sebooty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss is a broken victor of the Hunger Games and things get worse when Peeta is chosen as tribute. Can he manage to heal her heart as well as steal it away before battling to the death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Blue

The Reaping is a day I never looked forward to. Ever. When I was younger, it was because of the fear of being selected as tribute for District 12, and now because I hate having to see the two unlucky souls that I will I have to train, guide, and ultimately see die. I can't tell you how I won when I was chosen at the slight age of sixteen. I can't tell you how I managed to become the killer that did anything to ensure survival. I guess it was because I had something to survive for at the time.

The Hunger Games are sadistic and so very much a tool of the Capitol. I hate them. Both of them. From the time I was old enough to understand the images on the screen as they aired the Games every year, I knew I hated everything the President and his lackeys stood for. As soon as I turned twelve, I knew that I would be risking my life from then until I was deemed too old to participate at age eighteen. I had gotten off scot-free for four years before my name was drawn by Effie Trinket. That same year, Gale Hawthorne, my best and only friend was chosen to go into the arena with me.

Killing him was by far the worst experience I've lived through. And believe me, that's saying something.

When I returned home that year, broken more mentally than physically as they had reconstructed my battered body, I received hateful glares of the many friends Gale had as well as the heartbroken tears of his family. A family I had ultimately come to love as much as my own. I didn't often leave the Victor's Village unless it was absolutely necessary. I was turning into a recluse, a creature so turned in on itself that it wouldn't know kindness from hatred, friend from enemy, or even day from night.

The days blurred together and I had become little more than a fractured shell of a person, of a sister and daughter. My mother, rest her soul, lost all hope for me and the fear and anxiety of waiting for my sister, Primrose, to be chosen proved to be far too much for her fragile existence. She killed herself, hung herself in the middle of the night. Prim discovered her the next morning. The Peacekeepers took her from me, from our home, within hours of taking away the body.

Haymitch Abernathy, the only other living victor of the Games and my mentor, began slowly coaxing me back into the world. He was a drunk. It was just that simple. But he was a friend to me in a time when no one else could stand the sight of me. Haymitch began staying nights at my house, wrestling me awake when I would scream and thrash as the nightmares overtook my whole being. Along with helping me rid myself of the toxic demons that haunted me, he made sure I ate regularly and properly. He took care of me better than he could himself. It took the better half of six months for me to return to a functional state. For Haymitch to nurse me back to mental sanity and all around health. I had apparently missed my seventeenth birthday, not that I had anything to celebrate about being alive. Some days were easy to survive, but there were also the days that were a great deal more difficult to manage.

This, I knew, would be one of the latter days.

I wasn't excited about seeing the next pair of tributes chosen. The boy and the girl that would look to both me and Haymitch for guidance, for tips of surviving the Hunger Games. They would cling to us for hope when Haymitch and I were so far beyond repair we didn't know the definition of the word. It just didn't seem right. Didn't seem fair. These two kids would be forced to become killers for entertainment. One of them, if they were lucky, would come home to be not celebrated or congratulated, but sentenced into a life of shame and guilt. I wasn't quite sure I was ready for that. Ready for the responsibility of taking away some poor girl's or boy's dreams.

"Katniss. You ready?" asks Haymitch in his usual twang, echoing my thoughts. I run my grey eyes over him as he materialises from behind the door, taking in the suit he's wearing. I almost can't tell it's him, Portia did such a fantastic job of creating the coal black pants and jacket set. I'm actually a bit surprised to see him in it, because last night when the crate arrived at my house with both our Reaping outfits, Haymitch sputtered on and on about how he refused to be dressed up like some doll and stormed upstairs to the stash of white liquor I keep for him. My own outfit is rather simple yet stunning with a vibrant red colour starting at the bottom and slowly transforming into the colour of the sunset as the colours bleed through to the collar. Fire and simplicity are greatly featured in all of my stylist's – Cinna – work. My closet is full of his masterpieces, the ones he designed for me on my Victory Tour after the Games. I only just got home from it a mere two months ago and I was certain that any number of the dresses he had created would have been more than fine for me to wear today. Honestly, I was foolish to think that Cinna wouldn't send me something new.

He'd want me to shine like I was still the famed Girl on Fire.

"As ready as I'll ever be to see two children hand-picked for the finest form of entertainment," I answer Haymitch sullenly. I take his offered hand and he pulls me from my sitting place at the window sill. He doesn't say anything about my less than sunny attitude. He knows exactly how painful this is for me just as I know how unbearable it is for him. It occurs to me then, that our tributes- whoever they are- have the most rotten luck in the world. Not only because they will be chosen for either death or fame, but because they have poor excuses for mentors. A drunk and a mentally unstable recluse. Oh, what a pair we make.

The walk from the Village to the Square is brief and silent. Neither me nor my one last friend in this unforgiving world seem to be up to our usual banter. It's almost a shame, really, because we can almost always lift the spirits of the other. And today we could use a laugh, but there really isn't anything humorous to be found in the cinder streets full of nicely dressed Seam and townspeople. Parents that are stoic in their silent pain and anxiety of possibly having a child condemned, children and teenagers alike that are trembling in flat out fear.

In a matter of minutes, I'm being escorted up onto the stage by a Peacekeeper and forced into one of four chairs. Haymitch is sitting next to me on my right and next to him is Mayor Undersee. The empty chair is reserved for Effie Trinket, but she rarely ever uses her seat as she prances around the stage in her Capitol coloured clothing and heels, drawing names. I suppose I can't critique Effie too much as I have gotten to know her as a confidante in my time before the Games, throughout training, but her atrocious wigs and overdone makeup always makes my heart squeeze because I can hear Gale whispering to me about how funny she looks.

_"Do you think she realises just how absurd and somewhat terrifying she actually looks to most of us?"_

_"If that wig were any brighter, you could almost swear it was illuminated with lights. Neon ones at that. You should get one for yourself, Catnip. I bet you'd look stunning with powder blue hair."_

But Gale loved Effie and Effie loved Gale. Not romantically, of course. They were just fond of each other, appreciated what the other had to offer. Effie and I, on the other hand, never really hit it off and after I was crowned the victor. . well, she became even more distant with me. Everyone did. Save, of course, for Haymitch because he understood it wasn't my choice. He knows that I died in that arena along with my best friend.

I watch as kids between the ages of twelve and eighteen are roped off in areas based on age. The younger ones, stationed in the back, all wear looks of terror on their small faces. In contrast, the older ones that are sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen and standing in the front lines along the stage are all staring straight ahead with impassive masks on their faces. The group of seventeens draw my eyes as I look into the hollow faces of the people that were all in the same classes and groups as me when I was required to go to school.

I can't help but hope none of them are called for tribute because I'm not entirely sure I can coach people I could have once considered friends only to see them ripped to pieces later. My grey gaze runs along the crowd once again, stopping as a pair of crystal blue irises find me. I know who they belong to, but I refuse to look any longer into their aquatic depths. The few times I have, it made me feel like I was eleven all over again and I always relive him acting out of the sheer kindness in his heart and helping a dying girl who, by all means, was lower than his own worth.

I don't like that feeling. At all.

Throughout the opening ceremonies I stare blindly at a shop in the background. I tune out Effie's excited chatter, trying not to think that it, she, sounds a bit more lacklustre this year than she did last. I try, but it doesn't mean I actually succeed. It really does pain me to know that Effie Trinket hurts because of my actions. My stupid, foolhardy actions. I come back to life only when I know the camera is scanning over the past victors of District 12, or really just Haymitch and myself as there is no one else with our bloodstained title. I smile a little, raise only a corner of my mouth, as the screen zooms in on our faces. I don't really have to try to be exuberant just yet, that's saved for all my Capitol appearances. Now, I can be subdued, because everyone already knows the Reaping is, essentially, a melancholy thing. Not anything worth guffawing about.

"And now it is time to choose one brave young man and woman for this year's tributes," trills Effie and I snap my attention to her and the large glass bowls that hold tiny slips of paper. I now find it so strange that such a breakable thing like glass that's been blown out of proportion and shaped so precisely can hold such an immense weight, can hold the fate of so many lives. I watch with true interest, and -why not admit it? - some fear as her hand dips into the bowl designated for names of my district's females. She circles her fist around one and pulls up, unfolding the paper with slow and deliberate movements for effect. "Delly Cartwright."

My eyes flicker to the flamboyant girl in question and watch as she steps over the rope that imprisons the sixteens. I've never directly spoken to her, but I knew she had a thing for Gale, as did so many of the girls in our school, and was extremely talkative to almost everyone she came into contact with. I don't feel anything in relation to good or bad about her being selected, as awful as that sounds.

The sound of rustling papers draws my attention and I once again turn to look at Effie. Her hand is wriggling around in the bowl for boys and I can see she's having trouble covering how much selecting a male tribute is affecting her. She's undoubtedly thinking of Gale. Finally, after what seem like a span of years, her manicured and bejeweled fingers grabs a slip. "Peeta Mellark."

I close my eyes painfully tight against the onslaught of grief the name brings to me. I think, deep inside the recesses of my mind, I was hoping beyond hope that he of all of them would not be chosen and that I've been hoping so since I was a child. I slowly open my eyes and see him as he walks forward silently. His blue eyes are clouded with anguish and I feel an inexplicable need to reach out for him and console him, tell him things will be fine even though it is the most blatant of lies. Things for Peeta Mellark will never be fine again, not after this.

I can hear my heart pounding in my head and I know I'm crushing Haymitch's wrist with my tight hold. I want, more than anything, to forget that I know this boy. Forget that I am only alive because of him. Forget he was drawn against all odds. As I look on at him, staring at his brushed back blond hair and stiff broad shoulders, I feel myself shrinking back into a starving eleven year old. See myself indirectly meeting this pale faced yet beautiful boy.

I met him in the hard days, the bitter cold months that followed the mining explosion that took away my father. My mother, Prim, and I were all starving into nothingness and my mother was so catatonic that she couldn't be bothered to care. Let alone provide anything for us. It was long past the month she was allotted to mourn the death of her husband and go back to work, yet still she wouldn't move from her bed where she huddled under the blankets and stared at absolutely nothing. Prim was too kind and innocent to understand that she couldn't be roused. She insisted on braiding our mother's hair every morning before we had to disappear to school.

I was doing everything I could for us. Scrounging together all the food I could find, but we didn't have much of anything. Never did in the beginning before the bad days either. When we had finally eaten everything in the house, including the crushed mint leaves that were in the far back of the cabinets, I decided I needed to do better than my best.

Pulling together an armful of Prim's old baby clothes, I went into town with determination to sell them or trade them for something edible. I wasn't having much luck at all though and the rain that was coming down in rough torrents was proving to keep most doors barred from me as their owners refused to answer. I kept on though. I had to try, I had to excel. I was tempted to try the Hob, an old abandoned coal warehouse that had been turned into a sort of black market, but I was far too terrified to venture in there without the safety my father's hand had always provided. Somewhere along the way, I tripped over a divot in the road and all of Prim's clothes flew from my hands and into a muddy puddle. I didn't even try to salvage them. I just picked them up and walked behind some of the town shops to throw them away in one of the many rubbish bins that littered their backyard. 

The encounter happened just as I had opened the baker's bin. The baker's wife came barrelling out of the door having heard the clatter of the lid as it opened. The heat that followed her washed over me and I began to realize just how cold I really had become. The luscious scent of baking bread also wafted out the door and it made my mouth water and my stomach growl. The baker's wife, Peeta's mum, took one look at me and her face distorted into an awful scowl of disgust.

"Stupid Seam brat! Get out of here and don't you dare come back!" she'd yelled.

I backed up and turned to run, but not before I saw the little boy peek out from behind her, his blond hair messy with traces of flour matted in it. I collapsed alongside a scraggly tree, catching my breath and trying desperately to keep from crying. I heard a loud commotion come from inside the bakery and I feared that she was coming back for me, thinking I wasn't far enough away. I was wrong though, because I heard her yelling become more distinct as the back door opened again and the little blond boy appeared. "Peeta, you stupid boy! Just throw the burnt bread out, worthless child!" I heard his mother yelling and I could see a reddened spot on his face that indicated she had hit him.

Slowly, I watched, he made his way over to the edge of the back porch and threw a loaf of blackened bread into the pig trough. I didn't have time be jealous of the lucky animals before I saw two loaves land beside me, their edges also burnt by the fire. I looked up to him in question and found that he was gone. I didn't hesitate after that to scoop up the bread and take it home. My family feasted that night. 

The next morning, I saw Peeta pass me in the hall. I saw his red weal had swollen up and blacked his eye, but I didn't let my eyes linger too long. We didn't say anything to each other, didn't acknowledge that the other existed. I did, however, feel his eyes on me later at lunch when we were all outside. I turned to look back at him and saw his blue eyes flicker away from my face before he walked off. I stared at where he had been standing for a long while after he'd gone., stared at the first sign of hope I had seen in such a long time.

The first dandelion of spring.

It seemed so unfair that the boy with the bread now had to either die or kill someone. More than one someone. I felt hatred boiling in my veins as I thought about just how different our lives could have been without the sick and twisted interference of the Capitol, of President Snow. This boy could live in peace, Gale could be alive, I could be sane, Haymitch could be sober. But none of us were those things and it was the Capitol's fault. The Gamemakers' fault.

Releasing the death grip I still held on Haymitch, I tent my hands in my lap and twirl my thumbs around each other as the Reaping begins to subside. I don't dare look at anyone, at anything. I couldn't see the innocence in Peeta's and Delly's face, the masked hurt in Effie's, the destructive demeanour that always lined Haymitch's. I would break if I saw it all. I would revert back into myself and unravel all of my mentor's hard work.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!" I hear Effie say as she turns away from the microphone.

I can see the white boots of the Peacekeepers as they walk forward to retrieve the tributes and take them away inside the Justice Building. Take them to say their goodbyes. I sit unmoving, unhearing, unseeing. It's finally Haymitch picking me up that jolts me back into the present, I don't fight him though as he tosses me over his shoulder and takes me to the train. 

Once we board the train, he sits me in a chair and orders a glass of water, pressing it into my hand when it is delivered. I take little sips and we sit in silence. One of the things that I had grown to love about my mentor is that he never presses me for information. Never makes me spew out my feelings and thoughts. He gives me the time and distance he thinks I need, knowing that I will come to him when the time comes. And it always came.

I roll my shoulders as I sit back in the plush seat and look up at him. He's nursing a glass of red liquor. Or maybe it is red juice that conceals white liquor. I don't know and I honestly don't care. "Will this ever get easier?" I say.

"I'm afraid not, sweetheart," answers Haymitch. I used to cringe or curse at him whenever he called me his pet name, but now I take it as he means it; in terms of endearment. "But you have to pull yourself together for that boy and girl. They already have a drunk for a mentor, they don't need a comatose one either."

I nod at his words. He's right. He usually is though I never give him credit for it. "I'm fine, really. I just wasn't as prepared for this as I thought. Sending kids to certain death isn't the cake-walk the Capitol likes to paint it as."

"You know them, don't you?"

"No. I know one of them and I don't think I can bear seeing him die for something as foul as depraved entertainment."

"I know the feeling," another voice says. I turn around in my seat and look at Effie as she enters the dining room. She has a pained look in her eyes, but other than that she seems as perfect as porcelain. I watch her as she moves to sit across from me and next to Haymitch.

"I'm sorry, Effie," I whisper. I don't know for certain what I am trying to apologise for. That I killed Gale and became a champion? That she has to deal with not only me every year now, but the memories that will forever have Gale ingrained in them at my side? Sorry that I won? Maybe I'm saying sorry for all of it and so much more. Either way, Effie Trinket does the one thing I don't expect. She walks around the table and hugs me tightly to her and whispers that she never blamed me and that even if she had, she'd have forgiven me a long time ago.

This, the sight of Effie with her arms wrapped around me and mine patting her back soothingly, is what Peeta and Delly walk in on as they enter the dining room of the train. Effie releases me as soon as she sees them and welcomes them while Haymitch is cackling at the awkwardness that has begun to permeate through the air. I do nothing, just sit there locked in the gaze of blue.

//

//

My dreams are especially awful tonight. All screams and blood dripping from cracks of rocks. The swirl of green that is the leaves of the trees and the grass of the cracked and dry ground is leaving me dizzy as I look at it. Warm and sticky red fluid is dripping down my head, obstructing the vision of my right eye, but I can still see him. He's standing just in front of me, blocked by the hulking body of one of the Careers. His throat is being crushed and lightly cut by the tip of a blade that's longer than my arm.

'Shoot me,' he mouths.

I shake my head against the preposterous idea that he has of me killing him as well as against the tears threatening my eyes. He mouths the words again, more urgently. His grey eyes, eyes that are so identical to my own yet so much more beautiful, are pleading with me and begging that I just give in. With a silent sob, I feel my head bow in unspoken shame and seal the promise he's asking of me. I move to aim my already loaded bow, lining up the tip of the arrow with his heart, and let it fly. I watch in horror as it buries into his chest and the colour drains from him as well as the life he could have lived.

Cato, the Career that had him pinned, spins around and raises his sword arm to slash at me. The cold metal of the blade finds purchase down my chest, leaving a trail of blood in its path. I numbly reach for an arrow from my sheath, knowing that it's already too late and that I am, without all doubt, going to die. I load my bow and aim to shoot when Cato's body goes limp and falls to the ground. I stare at the two bodies before me, seeing the gaping hole left in my best friend's chest and the arrow that had been plunged into Cato's back, still marred with the traces of Gale's own blood.

The horror dawns on me then. Gale saved my life even though I had taken his and I am now the victor of the seventy-third Hunger Games.

I shoot up in my bed, panting and gasping for air, just as cannons ring out in my ears. Sweat is causing my hair to cling to me along with the stifling sheets. Without any thought, I stand from the bed and strip off my clothes before wandering into the en-suite to splash my face with cold water. When I'm finished, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I lightly trail my fingers over the taut pink skin that trails from my collarbone and over my left breast to finally end just above my bellybutton. I'd refused to let the Capitol's healers perfect my skin. I wanted this reminder of what I had done. I needed it.

I can tell by the faint stream of light that is coming through the window in the bedroom that it's early morning. There's not much need to go back to sleep, so I step into the shower, programming it to something soothing. As soon as the warm water and soap begin slapping against my tense body, the tears come. I find myself sinking down to the floor of the shower, fingernails digging into the tiles, as the choking sounds that are my sobs began wracking against me like ghostly waves.

After my return from the Games, I had been in a state that kept me numb. I never finally felt the full force of what I had done, what I had lost, until a few months ago. I was in the middle of my Victory Tour when the first attack of tears sent me to my knees. I had just gotten back to the train from the dinner that had been held in District 4, the echoes of idle chatter thundered loudly in my ears.

Finnick Odair was the one who found me. He was a victor from the Games years ago and was also one of the youngest there had been. He comforted me in the only way he knew I could be, by letting me cry on his shoulder as he soothed my trembling body by running his hand along my spine. I hated that he had been the one to comfort me, see me like I was. But he understood what I was feeling down to an exact science because he had done the same thing. He had killed a friend. He had survived against all odds. Still, it bruised my ego to know that the man that so many woman drooled over, had seen me at my absolute worst.

We've been in contact since, Finnick and I. I'm supposed to be making an appearance at his wedding after this round of Games. That same night he consoled me, he told me all about Annie Cresta. He loved her despite what being crowned champion of her Hunger Games had done to her. He told me about how they had healed each others' wounds like no medicine ever could. With love. I was immediately jealous that he had that and I didn't. I didn't even have a family any more and he was in love and healing parts of himself he didn't know or didn't care to know were broken.

I wanted that. Needed that. Longed for that.

I still don't have that connection though. What do I have? A drunk mentor that takes care of me when all eyes of the public are turned away. It doesn't seem quite so pleasant, doesn't even compare to the bond of Annie and Finnick.

Once I know that the tears are gone, washed down the drain with the calming scent of lavender bubbles, I pull myself out of the shower. After I've been dried off by the almost magical mat that is just on the other side of my shower, I walk over to my closet. I select something plain and simple in all meanings of the words; a white shirt and tawny trousers. I pull them both on over my underthings and braid back my hair in its usual plait. I meander down the hall and back into the dimly lit dining room where there's already a slew of food set out on a table that holds juice and coffee and hot chocolate as well as orange slices, stew, eggs, rolls, and so much more than my mind can process at the early hour. I pour myself a cup of hot chocolate and grab a few rolls from the platter, breaking off small pieces and dipping them in. A couple of minutes roll by - or are they hours? - and I hear feet padding in the hallway. I look up just as Peeta walks into the room. Our eyes meet as they always seem to before I look back down at my now gone breakfast.

"Couldn't sleep?" asks Peeta.

I shake my head. "Not so much. You too?"

"I'm too anxious to sleep. Being chosen to go to my death isn't exactly a great way to soothe the nerves as I'm sure you know," he answers and sits down with a plate full of food.

I make a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh as I take a sip of my hot chocolate. "Trust me, sleeping after is a lot harder than before." I'm not sure why I say it, but I don't feel bad about letting it slip either. I'm not supposed to lie to him, but even if that weren't the case, I feel like I can't.

"I bet," Peeta replies.

We lapse into silence then, me picking at the new rolls in front of me and taking small sips of cocoa as he eats his piled up breakfast platter. It's not an uncomfortable silence like what happens with most people I have to be around. Instead, it reminds of the days that Haymitch and I sit quietly. It's companionable. Nice.

"Can I ask you something?"

I look to Peeta, almost startled by the serious note of his voice. "Of course. That's what I'm here for, after all. To answer your questions."

He looks down at the table for a second before peering deeply into my eyes. "How do you do it? H-how do you kill someone?" he finally asks in small and uncertain whisper.

I sit in shock. I wasn't expecting that question so soon. I knew, somewhere in my head I knew, that it would come up but I had been planning on it taking a while. Or at least long enough for me to come up with an acceptable answer. I lean back in my chair and think about it. How do you muster up the strength, or weakness, to steal someone's life? Someone you either don't know or do know. Either option isn't pretty. My mind wanders back to my awful time in the arena. Goes back to what my strategy was. I tried to avoid all contact and need to kill. Choosing to live up in the trees and off the animals and just away from it all. But what was it that gave me whatever it was I needed to deliver the few slayings I did commit? "You just do it. Something inside you - adrenalin, fear, I don't know - gives you the push you need and then there's blood on your hands and it's difficult to wash away. I didn't kill because I wanted to survive. I tended to act out of vengeance, taking retribution on the ones who murdered thoughtlessly," I admit.

Peeta's staring at me intently now, his sapphire eyes boring into me like he can see straight through me and into my soul. Its highly unnerving, but I don't disrupt him. I let him look, let him try to find his answers. He doesn't seem satisfied with what I have given, but he doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have time to because Haymitch has found his way into the cabin along with Delly.

"Starting without me, eh, sweetheart?" he slurs while collapsing into a chair next to me. Delly doesn't linger too long before deciding to sit next to Peeta. I can tell she's afraid.

I lift one shoulder up in a non-committal shrug in answer to Haymitch's words. "Well, I am the better half of this pair."

He makes a face at me before his mouth disappears into the glass of juice he's nursing. Effie walks in then with an exclamation that we're running a bit behind schedule due to a break down in the cart behind us. She seems rather distraught as the train rolls to a stop and it takes Haymitch making crude remarks to get her back into the present.

I, on a whim, decide to venture off the train though we'll only be broken down for maybe twenty minutes. We seem to have stopped in a vast expanse of woods that are between whatever two districts are bordering it. I take a deep breath through my nose, letting the tingle of evergreen and pine needles burst through my sinuses. I haven't dared to step a foot into a woodland area since my release from the arena a year ago. The woods, once my greatest and dearest safe haven, are an enemy. The wind whispers haunting words through the leaves and brush. The memories of spending days out in the woods hunting with Gale spring to the forefront of my mind as well as the last glimpses we shared before I stole the light from his eyes.

The sound of a twig snapping sends my muscles into tight knots as I whirl around swiftly. My hands instinctively reach for either my bow or arrows before the realisation that I have neither dawns on me. My eyes hone in on the pensive face of Peeta Mellark as he stands just inches from me. His own eyes show just how startled he is, scared of how to proceed. Or, maybe, scared of whatever expression is riding my face because I'm sure I look feral. I immediately soften as I slowly begin to process I am in no danger.

"What?" I snap at Peeta. My voice is a great deal harsher than I intend, but I don't act on the small pang of guilt that stabs at my heart.

"I was just coming to tell you that the train's ready,” Peeta retorts.

I don't respond, just take off walking with him at my side. We walk back toward the train in utter silence, the only sounds being that of the birds waking up and our steps and breathing. Halfway back, the train just coming into view, I feel Peeta's hand on my arm. I stop and turn back to face him. His face is soft, eyes kind. "Are you okay?" he asks. His hand shoots out and I feel his thumb caress the skin just under my eye. When he pulls away I see the shimmering wetness and it hits me that I have been crying. 

Silent tears are running down my cheeks. I'm not used to kindness or affection of any sort. So, Peeta's closeness is without a doubt making me uncomfortable. I want badly to step back, but my body seems frozen in it's place. Glued to the warmth of Peeta's hand cupping my cheek. "I-I'm fine," I stutter out, a small smile lifting my mouth despite the torrent of tears coming from my eyes. 

Maybe it is because I can't seem to get a good, direct read on him, but I don't see what Peeta has planned until I'm wrapped up in his arms. My head is resting along his strong shoulder, his hands playing with my hair, smoothing it back. "I know you're not," he whispers in my ear, his warm breath fanning out along my sensitive skin. "But you aren't alone." 

After that, Peeta releases me and we walk back to the train in the odd yet comfortable silence that seems to wrap around us. Once we board the train and all five of us file back into the dining room our talk becomes nothing more than what strategies Peeta and Delly need to get through the arena. Of course, Haymitch and I will have to choose which of our two tributes we think is more capable of survival and sponsor them. All of us know that will have to happen, but we refuse to talk about it. 

We reach the Capitol just after lunch. Delly and Peeta were immediately whisked away to be made up into something presentable for the eyes of the Capitol. They're in good hands though. Portia and Cinna always, always have a knack of making even the ugliest person shine like a star. Haymitch is off at some bar somewhere, getting toasted with the help of Chaff. Chaff is a victor of 11 and I swear he drinks more than Haymitch and that's quite a feat considering my old mentor won't drink something unless liquor is present in the key ingredients. Effie's down in the vaults of the Training Center, of course, getting herself primped and perfect for the evening's round of showcasing. 

I'm alone. 

Well, no. I'm not alone because my mind is keeping me company by constantly drifting back to the woods with Peeta and the words he had whispered. It scares me that this boy, a boy who constantly shows me nothing but thoughtfulness and understanding, can see through the mask I have begun presenting myself in. Though some part of me, a part that is rarely seen or heard, has grown warm at the idea that he's right and I'm not as alone as I think. I don't quite know what he meant though. Was he saying I had him? If that was the case, why? Why would he, the boy with the bread and the looks that could honestly bring any girl to her knees, choose me of all people? I am naught but mangled, used goods.

So caught up in my own inner debate, I didn't hear the door open to my room, but I surely feel the hand clap down on my shoulder and I bite my lip so hard that it bleeds to keep from screaming as I smell the sugary sweetness that always ruminates in the air around him. I turn, scowl on my face, to look into the sea green eyes of Finnick Odair.

"Hello, Katniss," he greets with a dimpled smile. 

"What are you doing in my room, Finnick?" 

"So, we aren't going to be cordial, then? Shame, really, I love watching you search for something nice to say. You get this cute scrunched up look on your face." He plops down on my bed, stretching his long and lean body out against the fluffed up comforter. "Anyway, I heard you had arrived and I merely wanted to see how my favourite Girl on Fire was holding up." I roll my eyes at him and climb off my bed. I attempt to pull him with me, but find myself weak against the years of conditioning his muscles have undergone. He pulls me back down to the bed, holding me tightly against his side. "Ah, ah, kitty Kat. You won't be getting rid of me until you spill your heart out. So, go on. Tell dear Finnick how life has treated you since our last encounter." 

I want to scream at him and tell him I hate him, but hating Finnick is one of those impossible things. It just can't happen. There's something about his personality that draws you in, well actually his looks draw you in, and once you're inside his world you have no escape. You don't want to escape. So, I, instead, tell him what he wants. I tell him about how Haymitch managed to just barely keep me alive and how my life seems to have done another tumble with the Reaping by Peeta Mellark being chosen and having to mentor him. I even go on to divulge the encounter in the rain all those years back and the incident in the woods that took place mere hours ago. I share all my secrets with Finnick Odair, just as I always do. 

"You love him, Katniss," he says when I'm finished with my storytelling. I stare up at him in sheer disbelief. He has to be crazy. Upon catching my look, Finnick's body rumbles with laughter. "Kat, your heart has spoken. You love Peeta and it is trying its' damnedest to tell you to stop thinking and just allow yourself to feel for this boy." 

"You're wrong. I can't love like you do. They call me cold-hearted for a reason and it isn't just because I can cut through people," I say angrily. I refuse to let myself hope or even feel that his words are true. I can't afford to be that weak. 

I feel his body move as he shakes his head at me. "You'll understand someday. I just hope it isn't too late," he says sadly. 

"Did you always love Annie, Finnick?" I ask and I don't know why I am questioning him like this. My mouth seems to have developed a mind of it's own. 

"No. She crept up on me," he responds simply. "And I believe that if you just let all your fears and walls slip away, Peeta will creep up on you in the same way. Before you know it people will call you coal-hearted because he'll unleash such a warm side of you that you really will be on fire. Like the coals your people so desperately mine." His voice is so full of conviction and his eyes are so full of the love he feels for Annie and the hope he harbours for me that I once again begin to ache for that kind of strength. 

And that's what love is, I realise. Strength. Not weakness. 

//

// 

There are a few more stolen moments between Peeta and myself throughout the week he spends in the Training Center before it's the day before he'll be leaving for the arena. Today, I have to be locked away with him for four hours once he's finished with Haymitch and I'm done with Delly. We're both instructing them on the things they will need to get through the interview with Caesar Flickerman later this evening. Usually Effie does the etiquette lessons, but this year she passed them off to me saying that I had done so beautifully last year and throughout my Tour that she thought I would be better suited. 

I've been doing my best to keep Finnick's predictions from my head, but his words had a way of seeping into my conscious and subconscious alike. Every single time I've been left alone with Peeta or just by myself, I would begin considering the possibility that I may actually be in love with him. It seems preposterous to fall in love in a matter of days, but I slowly began wondering if I have been falling for the boy with the bread since we were eleven. I had kept track of him through the years. I knew what he could do, how strong he was, and I even knew who he called his friends. Just as soon as the thoughts come, I banish them away with one simple question. If I do love him, does he feel the same? 

The red-headed Avox girl, a mute servant of the Capitol, alerts me that breakfast is being served, but I tell her I have plans of eating in my room this morning and ask her to tell the others that whenever she's done eating, Delly can make her way here. Not twenty minutes later there's another knock on my door and when I pull it back, I don't find myself looking into Delly Cartwright's face but rather Peeta's instead. 

"Haymitch said he wanted to work with Delly first, so he sent me to you," he explains as he steps into the room. He sits down on the edge of my bed and the sight of him, resting in a place I had been dreaming of his soft skin and what his lips might feel like, is almost too much for me to manage. I choose to sit atop the desk that's on the other side of the room. I have never once used it before this moment, but I know that if I sit on my bed next to Peeta, my jumbled hormones would force me into some crazed attack of the poor boy. 

I instantly launch into all the tips Effie had given the previous year. I tell him he needs to smile no matter what, walk with his head held high like he belongs on stage and in the Capitol itself. I also instruct him that whatever he and Haymitch choose as his angle to work the crowd, he needs to stick with it. At all costs. Otherwise he could kiss any hopes of sponsors goodbye. "Now, you ranked high in your training, so you've most likely already got a great deal of attention on you as it's rare when a tribute from District 12 receives any rating higher than a six and well, the wealthy will be wanting to know why you got an eight," I say, trying to keep his confidence up.

Peeta's great at listening. His face adapts a concentrated glower as he soaks in my words and I can tell that he's mentally writing it all down, but he surprises me when I tell him he's free to ask whatever he wants. He doesn't ask more about what he should do, but, instead, asks about me. "What did you do for an angle last year?" 

"I didn't have a strategy or angle. Haymitch couldn't find one that worked with my derisive attitude. In fact, he compared my charm to a dying slug." 

"Well, I think you're charming enough." 

I blush at that last comment. Profusely. Pink stains my face and I can even feel it colouring the tops of my breasts as it spreads across my chest. The colour darkens and seems to get even hotter as I catch that Peeta's eyes have locked on the raspberry hue. Clearing my throat, I thank him. At the sound of my voice, his pale eyes jump back up to mine and I can see that they've darkened just a bit, the pupils having expanded quite a bit though it's barely noticeable to those that aren't paying attention. But I always seem to be paying attention to Peeta. \\\

I look away and hold my gaze on my hands that have been folded in my lap for however long he's been on my bed and I've been sitting on this desk. The action seems to be my whole undoing because I don't see when Peeta gets off the bed, don't hear him as he moves closer to me, but I certainly feel his warmth as he cups my chin and forces me to look at him. I see the hunger in his eyes. I hear the rattling breaths he takes as we both move in towards each other. We're being pulled in like magnets, moths and flames, all of the cliché sayings that talk about irresistibility. \\\

His lips and mine meet at exactly the same time as we both lean in. The way his lips barely caress my own is like the whisper of a kiss and I find myself pulling him closer. My hands move, one travelling to the nape of his neck and playing at the soft hair there while the other rests against his cheek, securing his face to mine. The silk of his lips running along mine sends vibrations of pleasure through my nervous system, making my body tingle all over as we move closer still. Peeta pulls me forward until I'm sitting on the edge of the desk with his body positioned between my legs. One of his hands grips my thigh tightly and pulls me closer and closer until there just isn't any room left between us. \\\

His other hand is glued to the back of my head, his fingers woven into the tangles of my dark hair. Our lips are moving in tandem, gliding against each other smoothly and as though they had been sculpted to fit perfectly together. It seems, in all honesty, that every part of us had been moulded to fit together. A daring feeling of boldness washes over me and I tentatively run my tongue over Peeta's mouth, testing the boundaries as well as trying to deepen our kiss. He doesn't disappoint. His lips part and warm breath blasts into my mouth as he sighs, his own tongue peeking out to meet mine. My legs wrap tightly around his waist, securing him to me in yet another way, as we massage each others mouth slowly, seductively. Oh so slowly our lips fall away from the others so we can draw in ragged gasps of air. 

I open my eyes in disbelief, part of me thinking that this was all a dream. Dark blue eyes are staring into my grey ones - though I wouldn't be surprised if they were more black than grey now - and that's all the confirmation I need. This had indeed happened. I had kissed Peeta Mellark. No, I had made out with Peeta Mellark. 

I disentangle my legs from around him, releasing him with my hands as well, and lean back against the cool wall. My heated skin screams in relief at the sensation of the cold drywall the same way my muscles scream in anger for putting distance between me and the boy still between my legs. I close my eyes again, willing my heart to stop hammering so loudly against the ribs holding it hostage, only to open them almost immediately as I feel the light pressure of Peeta kissing me again. It's a chaste but lingering kiss and it sends goosebumps all down my spine.

Peeta leans down to my ear, whispering again. "I've been wanting to do that for years," I barely catch the words as my mind seems more focused on the tantalising feel his breath has on my skin. He then moves back from me and walks toward the door, hearing the pounding on it that I hadn't picked up on. Our time together is over and Delly comes in for her etiquette training. 

I silently vow to myself that I will get Peeta alone again before the morning, before he is taken away from me, and we will explore these delicious sensations and feelings again. 

//

//

All through the interviews of each tribute, flashes of the kiss from that afternoon plague my mind. My body creates phantoms of the feeling of Peeta's hands running over it along with the warmth he provided. I, like Finnick said, feel like I actually am on fire. I cross and uncross my legs several times throughout the ceremony, especially when Peeta shoots me wolfish smiles from where he is waiting. Two rows away from me Finnick is sitting and I can tell from the smug grin and silent laughter shaking his body, that he isn't missing the looks being aimed at me. I fixate a glare at him from where I sit, silently telling him to shut up. 

As Peeta comes across the stage to take his place next to Caesar Flickerman, flames begin lapping at my flesh. I squirm in my seat, trying desperately to find a way to cool down. I don't have much luck and Peeta's lingering gaze is doing absolutely nothing to help me. Haymitch's hand reaches out and settles atop my knee and I know he can feel the heat my skin has developed by the way he looks at me. His eyes change from confused to knowing in an instant. "Everything okay, sweetheart?" he asks. 

I bite my lip and nod my head. "I'm peachy. You?" 

"Well, I'm not wetting my panties like you, but I'm doing pretty swell if I do say so myself,” Haymitch quips, voice teasing and condemning all the same. Mortification washes through me, stubbing out the fire Peeta had created, and I flush in sheer embarrassment. I push Haymitch's hand off me and shrink in on myself, willing my body to stop being so hormonal. "Katniss, it isn't a bad thing to let yourself feel for him. Dangerous and possibly just a device of heartache, yes. But I've seen the difference in you this week and I know its because of that boy." Haymitch never tries to make feel better with words. Never attempts to reassure me. So, the whole idea of him doing so now brings me up short. 

I raise my head to ask him why, but the string of words that flows free of the blue-haired interviewer on stage stops me. "So, tell me, Peeta. Is there a special girl back home in District 12?" 

I stare up at the two men that are so brightly illuminated by stage lights that it almost hurts to look. Sweat beads up on my palms in anticipation of what Peeta will say as an answer. Caesar had inadvertently asked a question I was far too afraid to phrase myself and had pinned all my hopes on. I was about to find out, without a doubt, whether or not Peeta Mellark had feelings for either me or someone else. "Yeah, there is someone." The words fire pangs of something undetectable through my heart. He can mean anything with that. "But she's not in District 12 right now." I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. He could, again, mean anything with his words, but something is telling me he does mean me. Convincing me to not give up because he does love me. 

"Oh, really? Well, where is this lucky girl?" Caesar asks, fanning the flames of the audience's rapture. Every eye in Panem are most likely glued to them, waiting to hear what Peeta has to say. 

Peeta, ever the charismatic charmer, leans into Caesar and whispers just loud enough for the audience to pick up on via microphone, "Caesar, do you think you can keep a secret?" I roll my eyes at his antics, though a smile is cropping up on my lips. 

"Of course I can," answers Caesar. 

With a deep breath, Peeta sends my heart soaring and my head swimming in glee. "The girl I love is here in the Capitol with me." Gasps are heard in waves all through the audience of Capitol members. Beside me, Haymitch is chuckling and shaking his head. Two rows down, Finnick is whispering conspiratorially to Annie about what I am sure is Peeta and me. Caesar is beside himself in his own happiness and adoration. And then there's Peeta. He's staring straight at me, that love shining like blue sunlight in his eyes as he looks. My own eyes are trained on his and my face is split in half by the grin that I'm wearing and I swear everyone in all of Panem can hear my heart rattling in my chest in exuberance. 

Giggling laughter begins to rip away from my chest and I find my whole body shaking in relief, delight, shock. Every emotion in the spectrum seems to be spiralling through my veins like a dose of morphling. My ears begin to drown out all other sounds than my chiming laughter and accelerated heartbeat in the same fashion that my eyes have blurred away all other images than the one of Peeta beaming down at me from his chair. Somewhere in my mind I register that the cameras are all trained on my face, but I can't focus on anything other than the boy with the bread that had transformed into the man that I love. And I did love him. That was obvious now and I felt stupid and ashamed for not ever knowing it before. 

Time passes in slow motion, or at the speed of light, but it doesn't matter either way because before I know what's happening, lips are pressing against me. There is fire and passion in this one kiss that speaks volumes and is very much public. Peeta doesn't seem to mind that we're both on screen all over the country and that we're still standing amongst a large and very loud crowd of people who are staring at us. And that's enough for me to push away all ill feelings that being taped stirs in me. I place all my attention on the man in my arms who is simultaneously kissing me so gently yet so demandingly. 

Peeta and I pull away from each other and gaze deeply into the eyes of the other for what seems like always. I see his lips move, forming the words, and warmth begins to spread over me yet again and set my skin alight. "I love you, Katniss Everdeen."

"And I love you, Peeta Mellark." I smile and lean up to kiss him soundly on the mouth. As our lips meet again, I know that I will do whatever it takes to ensure that he survives the Games. I will do anything to see Peeta come home to me. 

 


End file.
